Here is something worse. A fat white pig all smothered in blood runs past. A soldier meets it, his bayonet at the charge. He lunges and lunges again, and the pig screams horribly. I had rather see a man killed. Some are up in the loft throwing down the forage. Others root up the vegetables. One drinks milk out of a strange vessel, amid the laughter of his comrades. It is a grotesque and medieval scene.
The General rides up, but he has no consolation for the women. “The farm has brought it upon itself.” He rides away again.
A parson rides up. “I can’t imagine why they don’t burn it,” says he.
A little Dutch boy stares with large, wondering grey eyes. He will tell all this to his grandchildren when we are in our graves.
“War is a terrible thing,” says the mother, in Dutch. The Tommies, with curious eyes, cluster round the doors and windows, staring in at the family. There is no individual rudeness.
One Kaffir enters the room. “A Kaffir!” cries the girl, with blazing eyes.
“Yes, a Kaffir,” says he defiantly—but he left.
“They won’t burn the house, will they?” cries the mother.
“No, no,” we answer; “they will not burn the house.”
We advance again after lunch, the houses and steeple much nearer.